Then she kissed him.
And he wanted to focus on just her, the taste of her lips, the fact that she hadn’t run away from him. But Jace was bothering him again. You’re still looking for something, trying to grab something that just keeps flying by you.
No. He had what he wanted right here in his grasp.
And now, he was bringing her home.
Wyatt, for the win.
She’d read the text under the groggy 4:00 a.m. sunrise.
RJ probably should have gotten a couple more hours of sleep instead of tiptoeing down the stairs and back into her crazy espionage life.
But frankly, RJ was tired of hiding.
Which was why, when her mother showed up in the kitchen with an And where do you think you’re going, young lady? she didn’t put up more of a fight.
Still, she should have never dragged her mother into this mess.
The voice had turned RJ from where she stood in the kitchen, looking at the coffee pot. No, willing it to brew more quickly. She wanted a quick and painless escape from the ranch, one that didn’t broadcast her intentions for the scrutiny of her mother, her nosy brother Reuben, or even Tate and Glo, although her little trip had been his idea.
One she’d been ruminating on for the last twenty-four hours. Tate wants me to go to Seattle and give the information to Senator Reba Jackson. She’s running for VP, but she has contacts that could clear my name.
York had even endorsed it with his I don’t hate that idea.
Especially since he thought Gustov was heading her direction.
She needed to leave, for the protection of her family, and hope that Gustov hadn’t figured out where she lived.
It didn’t hurt that York had texted her. The one night she’d had a fairly decent night’s sleep and she’d missed his text.
On my way to Seattle. Meet me? Renaissance Hotel. Room booked in your name. York.
She didn’t recognize his number, but then again, he used burner phones like any good spy.
On my way. She’d texted her answer back just as the sun slid into her bedroom, then packed her meager belongings and tiptoed downstairs.
The decision felt easy. And, frankly, it was about time.
Harder, however, to explain it to her mother, how she’d felt sidelined, lost. Even a shadow of the person she thought she was. So she kept it simple. “I’m leaving.”
Her mother was dressed in a pair of leggings, an oversized flannel shirt, her brown curly hair pulled back. She set a duffel bag on the floor. “Good. It’s about time.”
Not the response she’d expected, but— “What’s with the bag?”
“Well, I am assuming you are considering taking your old Chevy Malibu beater, the one you left behind when you graduated from college, and frankly, that’s going to get you to Missoula at best. Which means you need to take my truck. So I decided to go Thelma and Louise on you. Hurry up with that coffee, we have miles to go.”
Her mother walked over to the cupboard and pulled down a travel mug.
RJ just stared at her. “What is happening here?”
Ma opened the lid of the cup, looked inside as if checking if it were clean. She walked over to the sink to rinse it out. “Haven’t used this in a while.”
“Ma?”
She shook out the cup, grabbed a towel. “Tate told me about your trip to Seattle to see Reba Jackson, and I thought…we don’t spend enough time together—”
“I’ve been here for nearly seven weeks.”
“I know. Most of it binge-watching Alias, making cupcakes, and helping me can pickles. And brooding.”
“I haven’t been—”
“Yes, darling, you have. And I understand.” She reached for the coffee pot and filled her mug. “After your father died, I was absolutely shell-shocked. I wandered around for about a year not knowing what to do with myself, not sure who I was anymore. So much of my life had been tied to your father. I didn’t know how to do it alone. And then one day, I realized…I needed to stop looking at my grief and all the disappointments and start looking at what I still had.”
She capped the lid. “You and your brothers. This ranch. All this, and Jesus too. And I realized that I could go forward, trusting Jesus to carry me, or stay stuck. So, one day at a time, I stopped letting my grief have me and started giving my hurt—and my fears—over to Jesus. In exchange, He gave me peace.”
She walked over to the refrigerator. “It’s not about forcing yourself through the pain, honey.” Opening the fridge, she pulled out a couple apples, a container of yogurt. “It’s about exchanging your heart with the Lord’s.” She set those on the counter. “You will heal, Ruby. But not by trying to ignore your wounds or heal them with other things. Watching Alias will not make you braver. And we both know that cupcakes are of the devil.” She winked.
RJ just stared at her, her throat thick. “Ma, you can’t go to Seattle with me.”
“Yes, actually, I can.” She nodded to the coffee pot. “Better get your mug filled up. I want to get to know this Reba Jackson. Especially if we’re going to be related.” She opened the yogurt and grabbed a spoon. “I can’t believe Tate proposed.”
Out by the waterfall at sunset, just like RJ had suggested.
Her job here was finished.
“Fine,” RJ said. “But why don’t you just go with Tate and Glo? They’re leaving later today for Helena.”
“Travel with those two lovebirds? Yeah, that sounds fun.” She wrinkled her nose. “Listen, we’re due a girls’ trip anyway. Remember our last outing, to Vegas?”
“Ma. You were terrible. I tried to take you to a show and you covered your eyes the entire time.”
“So Vegas wasn’t my cup of tea. Frankly, I don’t think some of those shows should be anyone’s cup of tea, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like a good adventure.” She finished off her yogurt, dropped the spoon into the sink, and picked up a mesh bag, reaching for the apples. “Let’s go, sweetheart. Daylight’s burning.”
Huh.
They stopped for a coffee refill in Missoula, and by the time they hit Spokane, her mother suggested elevenses.
“So, tell me about this York guy you won’t talk about.” Her mother raised her eyebrow over a glazed donut from Dunkin’. She’d taken the wheel, her coffee mug wedged into the seat beside her. Her mother always looked dwarfed in the giant Chevy Silverado she’d refused to sell after RJ’s father died.
Now, she wore a pair of aviator sunglasses and definitely emitted a Susan Sarandon air as she pulled back out onto I-90.
RJ supposed that made her Geena Davis, Thelma, the meek housewife who fell for the sexy thief, Brad Pitt. Yeah, that sounded about right.
“He’s blondish. And quiet. And he was a Marine.”
“So, shoulders.”
“Ma!”
“And knows how to stand up to you is my guess.”
“What?”
She glanced over at RJ. “You wouldn’t like a man who couldn’t stand up to you or your brothers.”
Scarily true. “He and Ford got into it in Russia.”
Her mother nodded, her lips pursed.
“Ford won.”
A smile tweaked her face. “Of course he did.”
She didn’t add that the only reason was because she’d distracted York with a scream. “He worked for the CIA in some capacity.”
“So, a friend from work.” Her mother passed a slow-moving orange Kia.
RJ laughed. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Wisconsin. Raised by his grandparents. His parents were killed when he was a kid, but he didn’t tell me the details. He had an uncle who was a Marine—that’s why he enlisted.”
“So how’d you meet?”
She hadn’t exactly filled her mother in on her Great Escape from Russia, although she knew the summary. “He…works as a travel agent. Helped me get out of Russia.”
Her mother sighed. “Okay, honey. If that’s what you want to go with.�
��
“It’s that—or the ugly truth.”
“I’d like the truth, please. I know you were accused of assassinating a Russian general.”
“Coco’s dad, actually.”
From her mother’s quick intake of breath, she hadn’t known that part. “Did you see Coco?”
“Yeah. That’s why—oh, Ma, I’m so sorry. There’s so much you don’t know.”
“Like why Wyatt is in Russia right now? And the real reason you’ve been hiding out on the ranch? And even why Tate came home to check on you?”
Oh. “Yes, those things.”
“Let’s see. I’ve got about four free hours. I can probably squeeze you in.”
“Fine. But you have to promise not to freak out and drive off any cliffs.”
“Have another donut and start at the beginning.”
RJ reached for the bag. “It all started with a message I got from my boss, Sophia Randall. I’d been traveling with her a lot, and when her contact reached out with the message that he thought General Stanislov had a hit out on him, I tried to contact her. When I couldn’t find her, I took the meet instead.”
When her mother said nothing, RJ stared at the road in front of them and told her the story.
Two hours later, they hit Ellensburg, Washington, and stopped for lunch.
“So, what you’re telling me,” her mother said over a McDonald’s chicken sandwich, “is that Wyatt went to Russia to find Coco and clear your name?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Oh, that boy.” She picked up a fry and dipped it into ketchup. “He’s always been the romantic one.”
Huh. She hadn’t thought about that before. “Wyatt has always seemed a mystery to me. I missed a lot of his growing-up years, with him playing away from home.”
“Yes. Maybe that wasn’t the best idea, but your father saw his potential and wanted to give him every opportunity to succeed. It was hard on him—Orrin wanted him to live at home, but he knew he couldn’t move our entire family to invest in Wyatt’s sport, so he found a friend in Helena who Wyatt could live with.” She picked up her soda. “Problem was, your father never did feelings well. He hardened himself from Wyatt in an effort to let him go. I’m not sure Wyatt ever got that. I think he felt distant from our family because of it.”
“Is that why you didn’t come down hard on him after Ford found him and Coco in the barn?”
Her mother fingered her napkin. “No. He was a grown man by then. In college. Besides, I knew he was in love with her. And frankly, Coco was in love with him. A little embarrassment goes a long way. I do know that something happened between them—maybe at Christmas. Maybe at your father’s funeral. Maybe they had a fight, I don’t know. Whatever it was, it made her leave, and for that I regretted not stepping in. Maybe I should have protected her more.”
RJ reached across the table to squeeze her mother’s hand. “Is this what this road trip is about? Protecting me just a little longer?”
Her mother winked, then wadded up her food wrappers. “Maybe I am hoping to meet this York fellow.”
“He texted me this morning. Asked me to meet him in Seattle.”
Her mother raised an eyebrow.
“It’s not like that, Ma. He’s probably got information to help me—”
Her mother made a humming sound, nodding.
“What?”
“I knew something lit a fire under you. Now I know why God nudged me awake and told me to pack my bag.”
“Oh brother.”
Her mother winked at her again and grabbed her trash. “Let’s get moving. I need to set up my surveillance.”
RJ laughed. Her mother didn’t.
Now she knew where she inherited her superspy genes. “Please don’t tell me that you brought a weapon.”
“Then don’t look in the glove box.” Her mother slid into the passenger seat. “I didn’t get a conceal and carry if I didn’t intend to use it.”
Huh.
“Where are we going?”
“The Renaissance Hotel.”
“I hope I brought enough ammo.”
“Oh for crying in the sink.”
Her mother grinned.
Mid-afternoon traffic was light as they hit Seattle and wound their way downtown. RJ spotted the Space Needle in the distance rising over the skyline.
“There’s the parking garage,” her mother said, looking up from her phone, where she’d been navigating.
RJ pulled in, the clearance just over the Silverado’s roof.
She wasn’t sure how long she might be staying, or…well, the entire thing felt a little weird.
So maybe she didn’t mind having her mother along. Could be better than a brother.
Or even alone. Because yes, she trusted York. But she didn’t know…well, maybe he was right.
She didn’t exactly know him that well.
Why had he suggested a hotel to meet, instead of, say, a coffee shop?
She got out and looked at her phone. No reply to her message. She sent another one. I’m here.
“He said he booked me a room. In my name.”
Her mother had gotten out, pulling her satchel over her shoulder.
“You don’t have the gun in there, do you?”
“Doesn’t do me a lot of good sitting in the glove box, does it?”
“Oh, please, Ma—”
“Calm down.” She looped her arm through RJ’s. “I haven’t yet found a reason to use it.”
RJ rolled her eyes but headed to the elevator banks.
They exited into a lobby with tall bookshelves cordoning off sofas and reading areas. RJ approached the copper-topped reception desk, smiling at the woman in the dark suit.
“I have a room here in my name,” she said and decided that sounded awkward, so, “Ruby Jane Marshall?”
She reached into her purse and pulled out ID and a credit card.
The woman reached for the ID. “The room is paid for, with an incidentals card on file.” She handed over a couple card keys. “King suite. Fifth floor.”
“How far is Pike Place Market from here?”
“C’mon, Ma.”
She found the elevator bank and took them up to the fifth floor.
“I clearly need to get out more often. I hope you can see the ocean from your room.”
They exited, and she followed the numbers down to her room.
Paused outside the door. Looked at her mother, her breath caught.
“Having cold feet?”
“I just…what if I’ve been dreaming up any feelings he has for me?”
Her mother put her hands on her shoulders. Turned her. “Listen. Remember what I said about moving forward? You just have to open the door. Take a step inside. That’s all. And, I’ve got your back.”
This time RJ didn’t roll her eyes. “Thanks, Ma.”
Her mother kissed her forehead. “That’s what moms are for.”
She opened the door.
The smell hit her like the soaking of a wave, rancid, fresh, but not so pungent that she knew to turn, run.
No, she waited until she got into the parlor of the guest room before her steps told her to slow.
“Honey, something doesn’t feel—”
“York?” Please, let it not be—
No answer. And yes, she should have stopped right then, listened to the waver of her mother’s voice, the press of her hand on RJ’s arm, but no, it was that not so latent curiosity gene, her draw toward danger—probably also inherited from her mother—that urged her forward.
Into the doorway of the bedroom.
She froze, a scream wedged like a brick in her throat.
“Oh…” Her mother’s hand tightened on her arm. “Oh…God, help.”
A woman in her late forties, dressed in black pants and a formerly white oxford, lay on the bed, her throat slit, the bedding saturated, her skin deathly white.
RJ took a step toward her.
“What are you doing—”
“That’s
my…that’s my boss, Sophia Randall.” She took another step.
Yes, most definitely dead. RJ turned and stared at her mother.
The woman had her gun out. A tiny 9mm Sig Sauer. “Ma, put that away—”
“RJ! Are you here?”
The voice jerked her gaze past her mother, who was turning, and right on the man who came barreling into the room, slamming his hand on the open inner door.
Blond, wearing a dark leather jacket, blue jeans, and a black dress shirt. He looked a little worn out—darker whiskers, something of fear in his expression.
“York!”
And then a shot went off, probably more of a reflex than an aim, but the sound of it bulleted right through RJ.
She screamed. Shrill and quick before she had a chance to clamp her hand over her mouth.
A hole embedded the door where York’s head had been a second earlier.
He’d ducked, and in some superspy move that she should have expected, had already disarmed her mother.
Who was shaking. “Are you okay?” Gerri gasped.
RJ stood there like an idiot, gasping for breath as York took two more steps into the room, shoved the gun into his jacket pocket, and grabbed RJ.
He pulled her to himself with almost a violence, breathing hard, his arms so tight around her she might not be able to breathe.
She’d never been able to breathe around him. Not really.
She clung to him, trying not to shake.
“Are you hurt?” he said, his voice raspy. He put her away from him, looked her over, glanced at the woman on the bed, then looked over at her mother.
“Good shot.”
“Good miss,” Gerri said, her hand on her throat. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, slipping his hand down to RJ’s. “But we need to get out of here.”
He tugged her toward the door.
“Wait—I don’t understand. Didn’t you send me here?” RJ stumbled after him, out into the parlor. “And that’s my boss—how did she—?”
“Later.” His eyes were bloodshot, and he definitely looked wrung out. He turned to her, touched his hand to her face, his expression a little stripped.
She pressed her hand over his. “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” he said quietly.
She drew in a breath, her heart stopping to measure the moment. York, his blue eyes holding hers, the grim set to his jaw, but the smallest tweak of a smile up his face. She gripped the edges of his jacket, not wanting to let go. Ever.
Wyatt Page 17
